The Hundred Day Winter
by Francienyc
Summary: What happens in Narnia after the Pevensies disappear as told by Edmund's adopted daughter, Juliette. Though gone, the Four are hardly forgotten. Chapter 4 The examination of the royal will, and what the Pevensies left behind.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story takes place after the Pevensies disappear from Narnia. Based on the story rooty-boots and I have created, which was also the foundation for "The Artist's Tale" this is the family tree for the story. Susan was the first to marry Erech, an impoverished nobleman from the Seven Isles who she met when Peter was thrown from his horse while they were visiting. They had a son, Dashiel and a daughter, Edina, who died when there was a sickness in the land. Peter wound up falling in love with Susan's midwife, a fiery, redheaded woman named Amelia who gave him a daughter, Susannah (called Anna by everyone). Meanwhile, Lucy fell in love with Prince Corin of Archenland, who I see as only three years her junior and had his son, Lucien, so named by Corin after the boy's mother. Lucien was constantly sick as a child with the same illness that killed Edina until he was healed by the cordial not by Lucy, but by Edmund, who he was very close to. (How that all came to pass is a whole other story). As for Edmund, this story feeds off the Artist's Tale. He and Peridan split up for awhile, during which time Peridan's family pushed him into marriage, and his wife had a daughter Juliette. Without giving away a major part of "The Artist's Tale" for any who are interested, suffice it to say that Juliette has been raised in Cair Paravel with the other children in a slightly unorthodox family arrangement: Peridan is Juliette's Papa, her biological father, but he raised her with Edmund, who became Dada. But of course a little girl needs a female influence, so Peridan enlisted the help of his best friend, Susan, who pretty much adopted Juliette and became her Mama._

_While Lewis says the Golden Age was only about 15 years, I consider that information to be apocryphal inasmuch as it's in his letters and not the actual Chronicles themselves. Therefore the Golden Age in this story lasts about 25 years. So the kids are older. Dash and Juliette are about 16, Anna's 14 or so, and Lucien's 13. Juliette is our narrator here. Sorry for the long author's notes...now on to the story! (PS - If you're still confused, feel free to message me and I'll provide a more in-depth explanation)_

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When you lose someone, the hardest part isn't really the first shock of loss. That's almost easy because you can bury yourself in your love and your grief. You can cry and cry like Anna did, or not say a word like Lucien did, or not eat like Dash did, or sit on your father's knee and Uncle Erech's knee as if you were a little girl all over again like I did. This can go on for weeks and no one says anything. But then there is a point, an invisible line that you only see once you've reached it when inevitably the time has come to move on. Because you are still alive and still here, and you are not lost forever. So it comes time to find yourself again.

We all knew when we reached that point. No one said anything, but the expectation of "moving on" was heavy in the air, as if we could smell it in the smoke from the fire. It had been months since that day in the autumn when we were a dawdling party on a merry hunt. Then Uncle Peter saw the stag and took off, and because he was the competitive younger brother, Dada let out a cry and was on his heels with Aunty Lucy not a nose behind, not about to be outdone by _her_ older brother. And Mama rolled her eyes and smiled at their childishness as she always does but she spurred on her horse because she always follows where Uncle Peter leads. They were all smiling, so happy, and we laughed to see them go. That was after all what they did—rode off together, laughed together, four united monarchs. We all knew it was not four families but one.

We could not have imagined that Dash and Papa would come back the next morning bearing Uncle Peter's crown and Mama's horn and nothing more—not a trace of blood or a body or a breath of news. No one could have imagined the wail that came from Anna's lips, that fierce sound that was loud and sharp enough to give voice to the grief of the whole country. No one could have imagined the cold in Narnia that winter, or that instead of evenings with little groups scattered all over the castle we would bind ourselves together in grief as though sewing ourselves into a shroud. The fire was always stoked almost too high because Uncle Erech didn't have anything else to do. And we barely said a word to each other, just huddled in our chairs and felt the yawning gaps in the circle. The chess board stood untouched because Dada was the chess champion and everyone tried to beat him. The big armchair by the fire was vacant, though Aunt Amelia and Anna drew up footstools beside it and Anna would lay her head on the arm and stare at the fire with limpid eyes. The room was quiet without Aunty Lucy's laugh, and cold without Mama's caresses.

Terrible evenings where the grief was palpable. But we grew comfortable because we knew how to grieve. We could mourn their loss and we didn't have to try to be brave or get better. Then one night, Aunt Amelia stood up and brushed down her skirt and she asked Bors to bring her husband's letters. There were so many—old letters he had never seen, letters he had meant to reply to and scribbled notes about in the margins, new letters that kept coming because the people of Narnia were so lost without their High King they kept turning to him even after he was gone. As though he could come back, like Aslan. There was a mountain of paper, but Aunt Amelia set her mouth in a line and sorted through each one of those letters. She didn't say anything to anyone, and she stayed up until two in the morning, but she finished that night.

That was how we knew the time had come. We started thinking about the country outside the castle, leaderless and lost, and the world beyond that, greedy and ready to pounce. Sometimes Papa would rouse himself from his cloud of grief and note that something had to be done about the succession and remember Galma and the Seven Isles. We would nod, but no one felt strong enough to do anything just yet except to make sure the borders were protected by ordering the captains and the generals to do as they had been doing. I never thought I would understand so much about Narnian politics.

We knew the time had come, but we weren't ready for it. The circle by the hot fire broke up, and we scattered like snowflakes round the castle, sifting through their remnants. We found everything as they had left it months before and that seemed worse, because when I held Mama's embroidery hoop, the threaded needle told me she would be back any moment with the silk she had been hunting for. Daily living hurt much more, because it meant that life had to go on without them. And the castle was so quiet.

The best thing I could think of to do was follow my old routine as much as possible, and so one day I began again. Breakfast, then a walk in the garden. It wasn't a pleasant walk because I was thinking about everyone—how Papa hardly seemed to remember how to eat, how Lucien hadn't spoken a word for…I tabulated in my head. Two days. I was worried about him. Lucien didn't talk much at the best of times unless he was in a classroom. Only Aunty Lucy and Dada knew his secrets, and they were both gone. And Dash…I stopped myself. All the joy I had known with Dash belonged to another world. A world where the summer sun shone and the High King Peter was sitting at his rightful place on the throne of Narnia.

I went to the garden gate and when I looked out at the fields I was not surprised to see Dash trudging through the snow. He hadn't even shown me half his secret places, but I knew he was seeking one out now. His curly head was down and his shoulders were sagging. I wanted to run to him and be with him, but I didn't know what we could say. Usually our encounters were full of mute ecstasy, and one little sigh said more than Dada and Papa said to each other in a whole evening of banter. Dash's hair seemed very black against the snow and the white sky. I watched until he disappeared.

Then I turned and went inside. The getting up, the eating, the thinking, these were mechanical things I learned to do even in the depths of my grief. The hard part was the next step in my old routine, the hour in the music room.

When I entered the room, everything was just as we had left it. My score was still open to the page I had been working on the last day we had together. I couldn't even remember that lesson, because I thought there would be a never ending string after, but I tried to recreate it in my head. I sat at my stand and looked at the notes. I tried to summon up the image of Dada before me, conducting with that little half smile on his face. I tried to sing and imagine him correcting me. "No, no, Juliette. Not so much vibrato. Clear and sharp." I tried to find my voice for him, but it stuck in my throat. I went to the window and cried. I cried for my Dada who I loved so, the black haired man who came one day and told me he was going to take me away and make me a princess. I didn't know who would intercede when Papa became too strict. I didn't know who would tell me the best bedtime stories anymore, or who would really hear my voice. I choked on my sobs. I wasn't ready to move on. I wasn't strong enough.

After a long time I got up and wiped my tears with my cuff. That was what Dada used to do if he ever found me crying. Mama and Papa always had clean handkerchiefs, but Papa never did. He was forever getting them soiled, as fast as I could make them, and I made them by the dozen. But he never had a clean one, so if I was crying, he would draw me onto his knee and give me a hug and wipe my cheeks with his cuff. I would soil his silk shirts that way, but he didn't seem to mind.

Dada had a lovely voice. Sometimes when I was very sad, he would sing to me, quietly, as if his song was a secret. He had a song he made up just for me, and he would sing it to comfort me. I hummed this to myself as I wandered around the room thinking of Dada. I brushed my fingers over his instruments and mine. I peered at the rolls of sheet music I had organized so neatly but which Dada had ruffled when looking for something one day. I brushed the scattered papers with my fingertips, thinking that I would never have the heart to straighten them now. I wanted to hold onto every last trace he left.

I turned around, and my eyes fell on the writing desk. There was a score spread out on it, and I went over to peer at it and gasped when I saw what it was. One of Dada's songs, unfinished. I sat down and scanned the notes and notations, and the music started to play in my head. I could hear it so clearly that even when I reached the end of Dada's markings, the song went on. I bit my lip, and without pausing to think too much about what I was doing, I dipped his pen in ink and finished what I heard. It was as if Dada was singing in my ear. I knew his song.

Sometimes it was hard to grasped and almost escaped me, but I thought hard of Dada. I paced the room and buried my hands in my hair. I looked around the room, and it was as though I could see the notes hanging in the air. I only had to reach out and snatch them. And when I did, I saw that Dada was there too, and he was smiling his little half smile and nodding his approval.

I became so absorbed in my work that I didn't hear the door open or anyone step inside, yet I wasn't surprised when I heard Lucien's voice in my ear. "That's one of Uncle's songs."

The spell broke, and I looked up and nodded. Only then did I realize that tears were running down my cheeks. "It needed finishing."

He nodded too, and laid his hand on my shoulder. I covered his hand with mine; Lucien doesn't touch people unless he needs them. He reached out and brushed Dada's part of the score with his fingertips. "It was like he was here. Wasn't it." This was not a question.

"You know," I returned softly.

He shook his head, his eyes filling. "No, I don't." His voice broke.

I looked up at him. Poor Lucien looked so lost, and so pale and lonely. Dada was still hovering so close to me, and I wanted to share that with him. I stood up and took his hand. "Come on. I'll show you."

I pulled him through the halls and passages of the castle until we came to Papa and Dada's bed chamber. I knew Papa was in his studio, so I drew Lucien inside. He stood for a moment, looking at the hearth. The chess board was set up as it always was, and there was a stack of books on the table. The wine rack was full. These were all the little trappings of our childhood evenings: wine and books and chess and words. Someone was always talking in this bedchamber, but now it was silent. Neither of us could say a word.

While Lucien was examining the books, I went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out one of Dada's tunics. It was black, and emblazoned with his crest. Somehow the warm softness of the tunic was more comforting than the cold jewels he wore. I went to the wardrobe and took out a cloak too, but not before I stared inside for a moment. Dada was still hovering near me, and something in the air vibrated as I leaned inside and smelled the fresh cedar and rosewood. I reached into the back and was somehow surprised to find my fingertips brushing against wood. Surely Dada was on the other side, waiting.

I shook myself free of this fantasy and carried the clothes to Lucien. "You could wear these," I offered.

He looked at me, then the clothes and buried his face in them. "Oh…" he murmured, muffled against the fabric. "They smell like him. They do." And the next thing I knew, Lucien was sobbing, sobbing into the fine fabric. This was the first time he had cried. Uncle Corin said he sat up and stared at the candle burning all through the night. He did not speak unless absolutely necessary. But now the sobs wracked his thin body so deeply I was scared he would have an attack, forgetting that he had been cured of his illness forever by none other than Dada.

So I held him and let him cry. Eventually his coughing, bitter tears turned into a softer weeping, the keening of real sorrow. I kissed his pale curls and rocked him until he slept with his head on my lap, using Dada's clothes as a pillow. Then I stroked his back and rocked him, humming one of Dada's songs while he slept. I thought that he looked like a little boy, that he looked as he did when he was sleeping after one of his attacks. I knew he was sick from this loss—we all were. But I vowed I would take care of him.

After a time, Papa came in. He was very pale too, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He had looked this way since the fall. He didn't sleep and spent many hours in his studio, but he never seemed to paint anything, just stare at the canvas with the brush hanging listlessly from his fingers. He barely had the energy to raise his eyebrows at the picture Lucien and I made.

"Lucien needed…" I began, but trailed off. I didn't know how to find the words for what he needed.

That didn't seem to matter to Papa. He heaved a sigh and sat on his bed, pulling off his boots. Then he lay down, fully dressed, and twitched the curtains shut. I thought that he looked like a sick man, and I knew the cause. He knew the cause as well, but none of us knew the cure. I bent over Lucien's sleeping head and I let myself cry a few silent tears, wishing all the while that Dada would come and wipe away my tears with his cuff and find a way to rouse Papa. At the moment all I had was Lucien, and I held him tight.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Lucien never left my side after that. He followed me everywhere, wrapped up in Dada's cloak to try and retain some warmth. If I got up from the breakfast table, he rose too. If I went out for a walk, he was at my side. I didn't mind. How could I mind? Lucien was my little brother. I was scared of boys when I first came to Narnia, but I loved him from the moment I saw him, such a strong spirit in such a weak body. What was troubling about his grief was that now he had the inverse. His body was getting stronger. He could take falls that would break even Dash's bones or stand in the snow for hours and not catch cold, but his spirit was fading. He wasn't talking anymore, and he would sit in the library with a book open and not really read. He was always pale, with feathery blond curls and light grey eyes and skin as white as candle wax, but there had been a flush of excitement to his cheeks that echoed his mother. There was always a wicked spark in his eyes that made him look exactly like Dada, even when all of Dada's features were dark. Now this flush and this spark were getting washed away, like the tide creeping up on the beach. I thought of Lucien getting swallowed up, and I wanted to keep him by my side all the time to save him, if I could.

He still barely spoke to anyone. When he was in the company of his family, normally Lucien wouldn't stop talking. Dash was the silent one, turning things over in his head, lost in some daydream. Lucien always had something to say, and only he could really keep up with Papa and Dada's quick wit. Now his silence troubled me. I tried to coax it out of him with books and with walks, but nothing worked.

In the music room I continued to work on Dada's song. Lucien would sit in the window seat and watch me with serious eyes as I went over it again and again. I don't know what mania possessed me to work so hard on it, but something in me sensed that this was more than just a ditty that Dada would have sung to us or had me sing. This was something bigger, and I was determined to finish it for him.

Some days the work came easier. Those were the days when my memory was sharp, when I could hear Dada laughing and remember the sound of his voice and the things he would say. Days when I could close my eyes and feel him pat my shoulder or kiss the top of my head. Then the notes came from the pen as if Dada was humming them to me. Lucien would watch me, bent over the work. Once when I raised my head to stretch my neck he asked quietly "You can hear him, can't you. Uncle. You can hear him."

I nodded. We had had this conversation several times before, but this time Lucien added something. "I can't hear him. Or Mama. They're gone, Juliette, and I can't remember anymore."

I got up and went over to him, stroking his hair. "Shh. Yes you can. They're not going to leave you."

He shook his head bleakly, and I wrapped my arms around his head and held him to my breast, rocking him as if he were my baby, trying to remember the caresses I had seen Aunty Lucy bestow on him. He shuddered, and sighed. After a long while, he murmured, "My song. Sing me my song."

"What song, darling?" I asked softly, using Aunty Lucy's most affectionate name for him.

"About the rainbow. Somewhere over the rainbow."

I strained to remember, but I could only recall vague strains of the melody. "I'm sorry, Lucien," I whispered. "I can't remember it."

He tried to hum a little bit, but he broke down again and lapsed into silence. I held him tight and wracked my brain for a way to give him any sort of comfort that I could. Finally I coaxed him up and into his room, where I sat him on his bed and wound up the music box Uncle Corin sent to him which Aunty Lucy used to wind up for him when he went to bed. There was another music box in the treasury which Aunty Lucy had also used to soothe Lucien, but none of us had yet dared to break the seal on the vault. When the tinkling music filled the room, I brought the box over to Lucien.

He stared at it as it lay in the palm of my hand, finally reaching out a fingertip to touch it. "When I couldn't sleep, Mama would play this for me. And she would sit by me until I did fall asleep." He looked up at me, and his eyes were startlingly dry. I looked into them, those wide, inscrutable grey eyes, and I saw that he wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He was drowning.

"Oh, Lucien," I whispered.

"Now I can't remember her song. I can't remember it. I can't remember what Uncle looks like—I have to go down to the gallery." He inhaled a sharp breath, the sort he would suck in when he used to have attacks.

"It's alright, darling. Don't panic." I stroked his arm.

"What if I forget them, Juliette! What if I forget Mama and Uncle? Who will understand me? They were the only ones that did. Uncle knew. He _knew_." Lucien was shaking violently now, and I folded him up in my arms. "I can't even remember my song. I can't remember it."

"Cry, Lucien," I begged him. "You have to let go."

"I can't let go!"

I stroked his back and his blond curls, and he trembled in my arms and shed not one tear. I had not called on Aslan since the night they disappeared. I stayed up all night then, chanting all the prayers that I knew, pleading with my whole being that He might let Mama and Dada and Uncle Peter and Aunty Lucy come back to us. When Dash came back two days later with only Uncle Peter's crown, I thought that Aslan's will was different from mine and he wouldn't listen to my prayers. So I stopped praying. But with Lucien slipping away so fast, I did the only thing I could. I cried for him, squeezing my eyes shut as the tears trickled from my eyes and onto his hair.

"Please Aslan," I begged silently. "Please don't let us lose Lucien too. Please." I kissed his hair fervently and rocked him not only because he needed it, but because he was so precious to me. I thought about all the times he had been sick, all the attacks, and none of them scared me as much as this. He was holding onto his pain as if that was all that was left of them, and I didn't know how to make him let go.

After a long time, Uncle Corin opened the door. I looked up and saw the tears in his eyes. Uncle Corin's tears flowed freely; he was unashamed to break down in the middle of a meal or lean on Uncle Erech's shoulder. I looked at him and the sadness he was molting like a skin, and something leapt in my chest. Had Aslan answered my prayer?

Uncle Corin came over and knelt by the bedside, laying a hand on Lucien's narrow back. He swallowed, checking his tears for a moment. He looked to me. "What's happened?"

I didn't need to explain, for as soon as Lucien felt his father's touch, he turned to him and wrapped his arms around his father. "Daddy, I can't remember. I can't remember my song."

Uncle Corin held his son in a crushingly tight hug, squeezing his eyes shut. The tears were already running down his cheeks. "It's alright, son. I remember."

Lucien drew away to stare at his father, his eyebrows raised to register his surprise. "You do?"

"I remember everything about Mama," Uncle Corin's voice broke, but I thought that it was like the tremolo of a mandolin, sure behind its poignancy. "Most of all I remember how much she loved you. Remember? We're her boys."

Lucien nodded, and lay down under the covers of his bed, still fully dressed. His fingers fretted with the hem of the sheet as they used to when he was a little boy. He looked so small and so frail I had to clap my hand over my mouth to hold in a sob. He didn't notice me, though. His eyes were fixed on his father. "Sing it for me," he whispered.

Obligingly, Uncle Corin took up the tune. His voice was its own symphony, breaking with sorrow, warm with memory, soft with tenderness for the son he never expected but loved so dearly. Normally Uncle Corin wasn't much of a singer and Dada made wicked fun of his voice, but that night it was one of the most beautiful sounds I had ever heard in my life. I didn't even think to get up and leave; I let the soothing spell of the simple words and his lovely voice wrap themselves around me.

_Somewhere over the rainbow  
Way up high  
There's a land that I heard of  
Once in a lullaby_

When troubles melted like lemon drops, Lucien inhaled a shaky breath, and exhaled on a jagged sob. His lashes fluttered shut and the tears started to seep out from under his lids. I had the crazy idea to collect the tears in a little vial, they were so miraculous. As his chest expanded under his sobs, Uncle Corin reached out and massaged it as we used to have to do to soothe Lucien's chest when he was having an attack. Uncle Corin did this to pull his sobs out of him. Lucien curled up in a ball, but Uncle Corin did not cease his broken song or his sure caresses.

Watching them gave me a sudden pull of longing for my own Papa, who had not shed his tears yet either. I wanted to see if we could comfort each other and somehow collect the scraps of Dada together into whole memories so that it would be as though he sat before the fire with us. I got up and slipped silently from the room, but once I was in the hallway I ran to Papa's rooms as fast as I could. Already the tears were welling up in me, pressing on my chest, but I couldn't shed them until I was with Papa.

I burst into his rooms without even knocking, but he was not sitting by the fire. In fact, he was already asleep in bed, with Dash bending over him and tucking the covers around him. I glanced at the hearthside and saw the bottles of Archenlandish wine there, twice what he and Dada would drink together in an evening. I froze.

"I tried to stop him, but he was already so far gone when I got here. It was all I could do to sit with him," Dash said quietly, coming to stand before me.

I nodded, my brow tensing. "Thank you," I whispered, and I meant it. I felt a surge of gratitude that he had been there at all, that someone else was there to take care of Papa. I took his hand. That was the first time we had touched in months.

There was so much more to say. I wanted to pour out my fear to him, my terror of this grief with a hold fiercer than the bite of a werewolf. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to grieve for our mother together and comfort him as he comforted me. I wanted to tell him I loved him still, but I couldn't raise my eyes to look into his face. The boy and the girl who had lain with each other all through the heady heat of summer were gone. We were left in their place, a man and a woman lost in a cold world we didn't understand. He gave my hand the briefest squeeze, and then he left.

Papa was sound asleep, but I laid down next to him and hugged him for comfort. I sat up a little and stroked his hair back. It was greasy and lanky, as if he had not washed it in many days. Papa was like Peridan—Dada and Mama were the people who understood him best in the world. Dada was his love and Mama his best friend. I saw the adoration in his eyes every time he looked at either of them, and I saw how they loved him. Papa needed their love, the teasing words that were Dada's caresses, the more conventional kisses on the cheek that Mama gave him.

I leaned over and pressed a kiss to Papa's forehead. "I love you, Papa," I told him. "I do." His forehead twitched, and maybe through his stupor he heard me. I got up and went to lay down on the couch, resting my head on a pillow and staring into the fire. I rubbed my cheek on it and found that the surface of the pillow was rough. I pulled it from under my head and saw that it was a pillow Mama had embroidered for Papa, a design she had devised which was a combination of Papa's crest and Dada's. I wondered if this then was my crest, since I came from both of them. Only Mama would be so considerate. Only Mama.

I brushed my fingertips over the embroidery, biting on my lip. How I longed to go to Mama and lay my head in her lap and have her stroke my hair and soothe me. Mama could brush away all my worries. Mama…

I sat up in bed, and the pain ripped through me. I wasn't on the couch in Papa's room, I was in Uncle Peter's room. Only it was different: instead of being hung in crimson and gold with dark furniture, there was white wallpaper with gold outlined diamonds and blue hangings. The spacious room looked even airier. I was seeing all this through a haze of pain. I gripped my belly—it was huge. Aunt Amelia was standing at the foot of the bed and frowning in concentration. I understood. I was having my baby.

I arched my back as another spasm of pain washed over me. I tried to count the diamonds in the paper, but it hurt too much. I called out for Mama, and again, but she wasn't coming. Then I remembered. Mama was gone, and I had to do this alone.

I woke up curled into a tight little ball on the couch. I went into the bathroom and found that I had started my cycle. I sighed. Our bodies go on living despite us sometimes.


	3. Chapter 3

I woke the next morning to the snap of fabric, as if someone was opening curtains. Before I could fully register this, the room was flooded with light and the inside of my eyelids were red, not black. I blinked awake and realized that I was still on the sofa by Papa's hearth, and I propped myself up on my elbows.

Aunt Amelia was there, standing over Papa with her hands on her hips, her mouth in a grim line. Anna was in the corner—it was she who had drawn the curtains. Her eyes were fixed on her Mama, wide with both fascination and fear. She only glanced in my direction. Aunt Amelia didn't look at me at all; she stared down at my father.

"Up," she snipped at Papa. When he didn't move, she stripped the covers off him.

He curled up defensively, groaning as if he were a little boy. "Amelia, leave me in peace. My head is about to split in two," he whined. I turned my face away. Somehow this infantilism was worse than seeing him so drunk the night before.

"Then you should have thought about that before you drank all that wine last night. You need to get up. There's work to be done, letters which need answering and only you know what to say." She continued to stare down at him and speak in that clipped, measured tone.

"I can't even think straight. I'm not up to it." Papa's voice sounded very weak.

"It doesn't matter what you feel up to, it only matters what you've got to do," Aunt Amelia returned. "You're the only one of us who has any clue how to run this country, Peridan, and it's got to be done." She tugged on his arm.

Papa sat up and snatched his arm back. I got a look at him then, and he looked terrible. Papa was normally a very handsome man. I'd heard a hundred people say so—ladies at court, Mama, even Dada once or twice. I could see for myself. Though we had had the same clear green eyes and silky brown hair, somehow Papa managed to make it look striking. It may have had something to do with his features, which were strongly cut yet also delicate. It may have been the charm of his smile, or it may have been the personality which shone through from underneath—the wit and the artist's sensitivity, the loving man, the knight, the diplomat. Whatever it was had faded. Underneath I could see he still had his old handsome features, but they were all marred, as though someone had dabbed paint thinner over one of his canvasses or was playing a beautiful tune in the wrong key. There were deep purple circles under his eyes. His skin was waxy and his eyes were glassy and his cheeks drawn. His lips were as pale as his face, and the skin on them was dry and flaking. For a moment I had the terrible thought that my Papa had vanished too.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, propping his head up with his hand and burying his fingers in his hair. Aunt Amelia gave him a nudge. "Peridan—"

She never got any further than that, though, because Papa swayed a bit. Then he lurched forward and was sick all over the floor. I leapt up from the couch, blanching. Where was my elegant Papa with the smile that made everyone turn? Did Dada take him with him wherever he went? I glanced at Aunt Amelia's face because I couldn't bear to watch Papa anymore. I thought that I would see strength, perhaps more of that grim determination. There was that, but there was also disgust. My Papa revolted her. I choked on something myself and dashed from the room.

Outside, I leaned against the wall trying to calm myself with deep breaths. I pressed my palms against the cool wall and tilted my head back, counting my breaths as measures. I refused to cry. I couldn't. There was too much to do. I had to do something, but I didn't know what. I could still hear Papa being sick and Aunt Amelia tending to him in her strict way. I didn't know if she was right or if I should go in there and…and give Papa water and put a cool, damp cloth to his forehead, as Mama did when I was sick. I didn't know…

"Ugh!" I opened my eyes and Anna was there, very pale. Her fists and teeth were clenched. "Doesn't Uncle Peridan know any better?"

"It's not about knowing better," I explained as calmly as I could. "It's about…" I faltered for a moment. What was this about? What was happening to my father? "It's about being so sad you don't have a way to cope."

To my great surprise, Anna gave a roar of frustration. There was a little bust in bronze on a table next to her, and she picked this up and hurled it across the room. The force of her throw was so great that she chipped part of a marble pillar. "I am so _sick_ of everyone being depressed!" she cried, tossing her hair. Her eyes were flashing.

"But Anna, they're all gone. All of a sudden—"

"I know they're all gone! You don't think I know? I miss Papa all the _time_. I want to hear him call me 'Baby' again, even though I didn't want to let him. But if he were here…" she shook her head. "He's _not_ here. He's not coming back, and none of them are and if—if we sit around sulking…I can't bear this anymore! We are Narnia! We are not this pathetic!"

I felt a hot, angry tear splash on the back of my hand. "Papa's not pathetic!" I cried, but even as I spoke I could hear his plaintive voice in the next room. "He's not! He's just sad."

"He's pathetic!" Anna insisted. "It's like I can't breathe. All this sadness is suffocating me. He's not even _trying_—"

I don't know what else she said. There was a rushing sound in my ears which blocked out her words. Without thinking about what I was doing, I picked up my skirts and fled blindly down the hall.

I ran and ran without looking where I was going. I had grown up in Cair Paravel and knew its passages blindfolded. We had played a hundred thousand games of hide and seek when the rain pattered on the roof in little staccato taps. All those happy hours slipped by without us ever noticing. I ran past all those ghosts of moments without seeing any of them. All I could hear was Mama's voice in my head. "Your Papa is very sweet, and kind, and clever. He's one of the best men I know. He's my best friend." And I saw Dada rubbing his hand over Papa's hair, messing it up and saying with affection "You've got a big ego for someone who's constantly outshone by a certain black haired King." But there was admiration in his voice and warmth in his eyes. Papa…everyone loved Papa. Everyone _had_ loved Papa. Aunt Amelia was mad at him now, and Anna was disgusted. Not my handsome Papa. He didn't do that to people. And then I heard Mama's voice in my head again. "He's my best friend."

I ran smack into a warm, solid something. For a moment I didn't really recognize it, but then I smelled the woody smell and heard the steady beating of an old oak tree and I knew I had found Uncle Erech. I didn't cry. I just stood and listened to his heart beating its same old rhythm. I pressed my ear right up against his chest as I had when I was little.

Dada and Papa were elegant men, slender and lean muscled and handsome and witty. They had clever smiles and were excellent dancers and made swordplay a thing of grace. That was not the kind of man Uncle Erech was. He was big and quiet and had a deep, growling voice. I had been scared of him at the first until I knew how sweet he was and how comforting his old, steady oak heart could be. Uncle Erech was solid enough to withstand all weather.

He laid a rough hand on my hair. "What is it, Flower? What's wrong?"

I sniffed, but I didn't cry. "Papa is sick. Aunt Amelia wants him to get out of bed, but he won't, and he's sick."

"He's ill?"

I looked up and saw his black caterpillar eyebrows had crawled up his forehead. There were wrinkles above his raised eyebrows. I shook my head. "He made himself ill. Too much wine." My lip trembled, and I twisted it.

Uncle Erech gave a heavy sigh. Though there was disappointment in his face, I found even that comforting, like the creaks and groans of a house settling in against the cold. "Come," he said, and he turned me around and gripped my shoulder. He walked me back to Papa's suite, and his hand was on my shoulder the whole time. The heavy weight of it stilled me a little, and I no longer felt the need to burst into tears. I didn't want to run away, and the fluttering in my chest stopped.

When we reached Papa's door, he kissed my forehead. He didn't say anything else, but I watched him go inside, and I could hear the quiet rumble of his voice while he talked with Aunt Amelia, whose voice was still sharp and cracking. And then I heard Papa's voice too, and he wasn't whining. He only sounded very tired and sad. Like magic, Uncle Erech's steadiness had put everything to rights.

I sank onto a cushioned bench in the hall and listened to the sounds of the muffled conversation. I wondered if that was part of what Mama loved so much about Uncle Erech, that steadiness he had, the fact that when everyone else is upset he can just calm things down by being so steady. Did she like that he was so big but so kind? I knew she was very, very much in love with him, but I knew so little about why, or what she loved, or even how it happened. In public they seemed a strange pair, but when I saw them together in their chambers, I just knew they worked.

The ties on my skirts had tassels and I pulled at these, toying with the silk fringe. It was easy to understand Mama and Uncle Erech. I thought about my own woodsman. He was young and less creaky and craggy than Uncle Erech, supple, but still broad and strong. He had that same slow heartbeat that seemed to stop everything from rushing forward too fast. He was still green on the inside, the sap flowing fast in spring. No experience had weathered him yet—though this one would.

My lip trembled, and I closed my eyes. I missed him. I missed the warm smell of him and the tickle of his lips on my neck. I missed the ecstasy of loving him—such a sharp joy seemed impossible among all this dull sadness. I missed the taste of him, the freedom of lying with him in the grass among the flowers, under a summer bright sky. I missed the warmth of him afterwards, the heat and comfort he radiated, and the rich, golden happiness that made me want to laugh and laugh as if I were a child, though he had just loved me as a woman. I wanted to close my fingers around his hand and weather this storm with him. The castle was too crowded for that. We were all living on top of each other since they disappeared. We had been secret. Our love was only for us. It was selfish, and this was not a time to be selfish. We had a family to take care of, so we went about our duties and muddled through as best we could.

I knew all this, but as I sat on the bench tugging at the tassel on my skirt, I couldn't help but wish I could crawl into his arms when I was weary at night and let the steady beat of his green oak heart that he got from his father soothe me to sleep.

* * *

_A/N: So first off, thanks for reading all you lovely people! Reviews seriously make my day. I also wanted to address Lucien in the previous chapter, because a couple of people noted that he's either a) way too young for his age (about 13) or b) possibly touched in the head. Well, Lucien's a little different, to be sure, but he's in full control of all his mental faculties. He's just completely traumatized by losing his mother who adored him so and who was always there, and his Uncle, the only person who really understood him. Hopefully as he heals a bit, he'll appear to grow up as well--do let me know if he doesn't. He's not in this chapter he much, but he will be in coming chapters._


	4. Chapter 4

I thought that Lucien would come and find me, but he didn't. Eventually I went looking for him because I just wanted company. I wanted to hold someone. I poked my head in the library, a logical place to look for Lucien and did a double take when I saw Uncle Corin there. Uncle Corin was not a natural for books. He was actually very different from his pensive son, being all silliness and smiles and activity. And Lucien never cared. He adored his father anyway, even though he was twice as smart and half as strong as Uncle Corin.

That afternoon they were both standing together looking over a book, both their identical blond heads bent over it together. The room was still and warm, so still that I could see the dust drifting in the sunbeams that just touched Lucien's curls and his left hand. He was explaining something to his father in his quiet voice. Uncle Corin asked a question, and Lucien burst out with "Daddy!" and rolled his eyes. Uncle Corin only shook his head and reached an arm across Lucien's shoulders and laid a warm, heavy hand there.

Lucien brushed his hand over the page and his eyes grew pensive and took a sad cast. I thought to rush in and hug him, but Uncle Corin beat me to it. He was growing sentimental, and he sniffed as he said to his son. "I know. I know." That was all Lucien needed to hear, and he laid his trusting head down on his father's shoulder, not taking his hand off the page.

I turned away. Lucien had someone to understand; he didn't need me. He was getting better, and suddenly I remembered. Aslan had answered my prayer. I smiled a little bit as I retreated down the silent hall, trying to think of why I might have a lump in my throat.

Somewhere else in the castle, Anna was sitting with her mother. Aunt Amelia was soothing her daughter with identical fire-bright hair, nursing her child through grief. I thought of my Mama, who would have held me and rocked me until I stopped being afraid. I tried to recreate her whisper when I heard silk rustling, and some nights when I was laying in my bed it almost worked. Mama always made me feel better when I was sad or sick. Dimly I remembered my first night at Cair Paravel, when the gaggle of large women tried to strip my clothes off me, and when I hid myself in the corner they clucked with such loud disapproval I thought I would be sent away. Then Mama came and she held me and made everything alright and bathed me herself. She ruined a beautiful ball gown and she didn't even care.

I wanted to take care of Papa, and I wanted him to take care of me. I thought of going to him on the days when he couldn't get out of bed and feeding him tea and toast and curling up with him. Maybe we could look into our identical eyes and see one another. He lost his best friend and his…his what? His husband. That was the right word, I was sure. And I lost the same two people, my Mama and my Dada. We only had each other.

But Papa never cried. He stared a lot, and when I curled in bed next to him, he turned away. There was nothing to do but brush my fingers over his shoulderblade and tell him I loved him, then go away. I wanted to help Papa, but I had no idea what to do.

I wandered the halls with slow steps, not really sure of where I was going. I wasn't even paying attention, my head was so full of Papa and the comfort Mama might have given. When I looked up, I was in the wing of the castle full of privy chambers and conference rooms. One of the doors was open, and the same still sort of sunlight poured in, lighting up Dash as he bent over papers. No one had given any thought to working for months, but there Dash was, plugging away as Uncle Peter would have done. He sat hunched over the table with his elbow by the document, leaning his forehead on the heel of his hand. He looked so tight and worried I longed to go to him. I wanted to be the person who understood him. I wanted him to understand me. I decided I was going to break through the glass that separated us. I started to step into the room, a tentative smile growing on my face. I would sit next to him as we had in the school room and we would get through all the work together. The green was hidden under the quiet snow; we couldn't race into it and make love afterwards, but at least we would be together for awhile. Then a faun came tapping into view: not Tumnus, but another advisor. Dash looked up at this advisor, his face tight with concentration. I had to turn away. There was no room for me.

There was a night where Papa was sitting with us at the table eating soup slowly, as though he were an invalid. Lucien was trying to talk to him about a book he was reading while I held his hand and Dash watched over us closely. I glanced at him, letting him see my glimmer of hope.

Aunt Amelia strode in; Anna was, as ever, in her wake. She dropped a ledger on the table, and it landed with a definitive thud, so that I heard it before I looked at it. We all turned to glance.

"I found that among Peter's papers," she announced, looking at Papa.

Lucien raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to examine it. "It has the royal seals on it—all four of them." He looked up. "What is it?"

Papa eyed the ledger for a long moment, fretting his dry lips together. His pale cheeks went a shade paler and he took a moment to say "The royal will. You remember when they made it. After Edmund…" His voice trembled and he broke off as he remembered the accident. Dada had a perverse fit at the end of the summer and challenged Papa to the joust. More often than not Papa lost at chess and at swordplay, but he was the best jouster in the known world. He knocked Dada from his horse, and it was a narrow escape. Dada could have been killed; he was nearly paralyzed. After the accident he became obsessed with the idea of settling his affairs, and we all thought him ridiculous. None of us ever imagined the act would be so timely.

"Do you think we ought to open it?" Uncle Corin asked, screwing up his mouth doubtfully.

"This is the occasion it was written for," Aunt Amelia answered, her lips pressed thin. "Peter would have wanted us to. They all would have."

Uncle Erech nodded, eyeing the will sadly. "Alright then."

All of us children were mute. We didn't know what the will would say about our futures, what dictums it would have about Dash, Anna, and Lucien taking their places as kings and queens. Papa must have seen something of this in our faces, for he smiled thinly and rubbed his eyes. "It's just the will. What they left us. The Papers of Succession are elsewhere. It's alright to open it."

No one moved for a long moment until Lucien drew the ledger to him and broke the beribboned seals, each stamped with a separate signet ring. His grey eyes scanned the creamy paper, and he read aloud in a low murmur, "We, the sovereigns of Narnia by gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, being of sound mind and body do hereby divide the possessions of the crown and our personal effects among our well beloved family: our spouses, Erech, Prince of Narnia and Amelia, Princess of Narnia, Corin, Prince of Narnia and Archenland, and Peridan, Lord of Narnia, and our children, Dashiel, heir of Susan, Juliette, heir of Edmund, Susannah, heir of Peter, and Lucien, heir of Lucy."

There was some more official language, but I wasn't listening to it. As soon as I heard myself named as Dada's heir—not his adopted daughter in name only, but his heir in a legally binding document—I gasped quietly and bit the inside of my lip. Papa's hand closed over my forearm, and he murmured to me, "It was always that way, Juliette. From the day he told me we were going to get you."

I nodded in silence, waiting for Lucien to finish. When he did, he flipped the page. "First is the jewels and plate," he announced.

Anna stood up. "Then let's go to the treasury."

We all filed from the dining chamber into the Great Hall. Six months before there was always someone in the Great Hall. Some Narnians would come to genuflect before the four thrones even when no one was sitting in them—the power of the Prophecy was that great. Now all four thrones were draped in black, and it was a somber, chilling sight to come into the dimly lit hall and face their emptiness. We all stopped in a cluster somewhere in the middle of the room, and I felt Papa grip my arm harder now. I said a quick prayer that I could keep him with me. I needed him right then.

Finally Lucien licked his lips and pressed them together and walked up to the dais. He examined the thrones closely, his eyes unreadable. He brushed his hand over the high back of his mother's throne, then walked to the other side and lifted the edge of the black cloth on Dada's. He touched the marble arm and drew in a breath. In the quiet of the Great Hall I could hear him humming his lullaby under his breath. After he stood there awhile he looked up and stretched out a hand to Anna. "Come on," he said in a broken voice.

She nodded and ran to take his hand, and together they led the way to the door behind the thrones. Because I needed to distract myself, I counted the sixteen steps to the bottom as I held on to Papa's arm. I noticed that Dash had not said a word since Aunt Amelia brought in the ledger, but I felt him walking behind me.

When we were all gathered at the bottom of the stairs, Lucien cleared his throat a little. Uncle Corin held a torch aloft so he could read, and Lucien began to do so in a quiet steady voice. I felt my stomach churn as he did, for what would I have? Dada had named me, but that didn't mean anything. The others might not have left me anything.

But they did. I had all of Aunty Lucy's dresses, and Uncle Peter's coronation robes so rich with the finest embroidery done in real gold thread. Dada had left me something far better than any of his jewels – the entire music room was to be mine, all the scrolls, all his old sheet music. Dada also left Dash his lute, and I couldn't help but wish he would come and play it with me. I turned away from this thought when Lucien said my name.

"To Juliette, my dear daughter, I leave my engagement ring and Dash's christening gown which I embroidered and all of the jewels indicated in the ledger." Lucien looked over the edge of the book and gave me a nod and a tiny smile.

Uncle Erech turned away abruptly and strode through the glittering piles to grab the ring. He came back and pressed it into my palm, closing my fingers around it. The sharp stone dug into my hand, and somehow that was comforting. "It's right that she give it to you," he said. "She always wanted her girl to have it."

I nodded quickly, trying not to let the tears overwhelm me as I looked up at him. He touched my cheek. "Please, Uncle Erech," I said haltingly. "Will you keep it for me? Until I…for when I need it?"

He laid his hand on my head. "Yes, Flower. Of course."

I tried to smile my gratitude as I looked up at Uncle Erech, who was so tall and solid above me, but it was hard to smile. I squeezed the ring tight in my fist and thought of all the promises it meant between Mama and Uncle Erech. I wondered if Dash was watching me. I wondered if he still knew my mind as well as his. I tried not to wish I had some tangible proof of his promise, not just the faded Green, dead now under the winter snows.

"The gifts," Lucien announced softly, and we all turned. These were the magic gifts from Father Christmas, who returned to Narnia when the royal children came and the winter started to fade. Everyone knew the story, and everyone knew the weight of the gifts. The sword which killed the wolf. The horn which called for aid. The cordial which had cured Lucien's illness at last.

He read from the book. "I Peter, High King of Narnia, do hereby leave the sword Rhindon, my first sword, and its shield to my beloved daughter Susannah, who I do not doubt has the strength of spirit to wield them."

Anna's face went pale, almost white and she stood still as if she were frozen in one of Papa's paintings. She watched as Dash went to retrieve Uncle Peter's gifts from their place. When he handed them to Anna, I noticed her hands were shaking.

We all stepped closer to inspect the shining silver shield emblazoned with the luscious lion rampant. The color of that lion was a truer red than I had ever seen, and the shield so carefully polished and so bright that it picked up all the light from the surrounding torches and glowed with it. The shield was a magnificent thing, befitting a Magnificent King. As I stared at it, I remembered seeing Uncle Peter as King, mounted on his horse in shining armor, sitting on his throne in the Great Hall. He was such a tender Uncle that sometimes I forgot he was High King altogether, until I saw a glimpse of him as the people saw him.

Anna pulled the sword from the scabbard, and the scrape and ring of it echoed off the stone walls of the treasure chamber. In that metallic note we could hear a thousand sounds: Uncle Peter's rich and merry laugh, the warm voice he used with Aunt Amelia and Anna, his purposeful footfalls down the halls of the castle, his merry shout from the tiltyard. I almost expected to turn around and see him there, laughing and saying "Why, what's the matter? You didn't really think us gone, did you?" In fact, I looked over my shoulder, but all I saw were shadows.

One glance at Anna's face told me she heard something of her beloved Papa as well. When the echo subsided, her eyes filled with tears and the arm which held the sword Rhindon aloft began to droop. Aunt Amelia stepped forward to guide her wrist so that the tip of the sword might not scrape against the flagstones and dull. Together they sheathed the sword, and we all stood still and silent, too full of memory to speak.

Finally, Lucien continued to read slowly, in a soft voice. "I, Queen Susan, bequeath my gifts as follows: To my beloved son Dashiel, I leave my bow and quiver of arrows so that his aim might always be true." Dash took the bow and arrows down and ran his fingers over the beautifully carved bow. He strung it carefully and pulled it back, releasing it with a high musical twang that was as much full of Mama as the sound of the sword was full of Uncle Peter. I pictured her saying to me "Don't cry, dear heart," and somehow that made the lump in my throat impossible to swallow.

Lucien continued to read. "And to my dear daughter Juliette, I leave my horn, the magic horn of Narnia, so that she may know help is never far away and she is never alone."

Dash pulled the bow over his shoulder and went to take the horn down from its place. It was a beautiful thing, carved of ivory, and though it did not weigh very much, Dash held it reverently in his two hands. He carried it to me, and held it out. I felt his eyes on me, and when I reached out to take the horn, our fingers brushed. For a moment I looked up into his eyes, his blue eyes which were exactly like his mother's, deep as a velvet summer night. My fingers curled around the little horn and I clutched it to me. I saw it slung on Mama's hip, as it always had been. She had only winded it twice.

Lucien was looking carefully at the horn, his head tilted. He stepped toward me so that Dash was obliged to back up, and he touched the mouth of the horn with the tips of his fingers. "Whenever Aunt Susan blew this horn, it had the power to call Uncle Peter to her. If we blew it now, perhaps we could bring them back."

I looked at Papa. His pupils contracted so that his eyes were almost entirely green, that rare sea green I had only ever seen in my own eyes. "We could," he said, and his voice was strangely tight.

I clutched the horn to me, looking between Papa and Lucien. Both of them had such strange looks on their faces, as if they were starving and saw a banquet laid before them. But I thought—the horn only called Uncle Peter. Both times it was he who had appeared, not Dada or Aunty Lucy. And it was Mama who winded it…

"No," I said in a clear voice which also trembled. It was like the long, sustained note of a flute, just a touch vibrato. "I know…I know that it could work and they could come back. But what if only Uncle Peter returned? We would be without Dada, and Mama, and Aunty Lucy. He would be without them…there have always been four. And what if…what if Aslan wills that they should have gone, that they will return to save Narnia again?" I shook my head, tears spilling over. "I don't know. I don't know, but I feel that we shouldn't."

Dash slid his arms around my shoulders and pulled me close to his warmth. "Then we won't wind it." He looked around at everyone. "We won't."

They all nodded, looking somber and blank. I thought for a moment Papa might collapse but for Uncle Erech supporting him. I couldn't feel their despair. I turned the horn over in my hands and felt Mama there, watching me. I whispered in the very softest of voices, "I'm sorry, Mama. I should have known. I should have known that I was really your little girl all along."

Lucien shut the book with a snap and looked up at us, his eyes full. "I am to have Mama's dagger and her cordial." Slowly, he walked to where these gifts were hung and retrieved them himself. He weighed the diamond bottle in his hand, studying it, his brow tense. He must have felt the same impulse I did about the horn, for he looked around and all of us, screwed up his mouth and undid the stopper.

The scent of the cordial filled the room. The smell of it was like the sound of Aunty Lucy's laugh: warm and rich, and yet somehow also light and free. No one in the world could be sad after hearing Aunty Lucy laugh, and no one could be hurt after smelling the cordial. A light kindled in everyone's eyes, and we stood looking at each other, letting the delicious smell creep inside us. I felt Dash's arm tighten around me, and I looked up at him. He smile a very little bit and pressed a kiss to my forehead, right at the hairline.

I was about to turn into him and bury my head against his shirt when Uncle Corin stepped forward and plucked something off one of the piles of jewels. "I _told_ her we didn't lose this! She blamed me for ages." He held out a little amethyst ring in the palm of his hand. "I got it for her in Calormen because she always liked amethysts, and Susan would never buy them for her. She said they didn't suit Lucy."

Papa stuck out his tongue a bit. "They don't. Are you color blind, Corin?"

Uncle Corin laughed warmly. "Perhaps!" As he was laughing, Lucien peered at the little ring and smiled a bit.

Papa took the ring off them and turned it over in his hands. "I remember when you bought this. You were still sulking because Susan wouldn't have you." He raised an eyebrow.

Uncle Corin twisted his face comically. "Broke my heart, she did." He gave a mock sigh. "Good thing I had Lucy to comfort me."

"Well said, friend," Uncle Erech said, clapping Uncle Corin on the back.

Meanwhile, Lucien was picking among the piles, and he came back with more treasure in his hands. "Look," he said, holding out a medallion and a pin.

Aunt Amelia stepped forward and took the medallion. "I remember when he used to wear this." She looked around, her cheeks tinged pink as she decided to share the story. "When we first fell in love, he would come visit me in the Borough and he was always so…kingly. It used to irritate me so much!"

The rest of the night was a treasure hunt, sifting through the glittering jewels for memories. There were so many, more than we could recount. We went upstairs feeling very rich.

I brought the horn with me. The sight of it reminded me so strongly of Mama, and I liked the feeling it gave me when I cradled it close. I didn't know if I had made the right choice, but in that moment it seemed more important to hold on to hope. That was more magical than the horn, and that was why the horn left us in despair when the cordial let us laugh, just a little bit.

When I got into bed I laid the ivory horn on the pillow next to me and looked at it. I thought about Mama, and how she would braid my hair and tuck me in and sing me lullabies. She hadn't given birth to me, but I was still her girl. Her daughter. And Dada left me the music room because it was always that way. I belonged to them. I belonged, and the bond was so strong that it lasted even when they were gone. I could not help but shed a couple of grateful tears.

* * *

_A/N: Just for reference, the detail about Lucy liking amethysts was borrowed (or basely stolen, whichever you prefer) from Andi Horton's A Sea of Golden Sand, which has served to inspire me on several occasions, particularly when it comes to Corin and Lucy. I don't usually do the begging for reviews thing (hey, if I put it out there and you read it that's good enough) but I'm always intrigued to hear people's thoughts on the spouses and the children, whether they're worthy or compelling characters. I do intend to keep the Pevensies as absent-present characters throughout, by the way. Despite the fact that I've always been disappointed that there's no Peter in The Horse and His Boy, I've always liked the way Lewis characterizes Peter without us ever actually seeing the character, so that's an experiment I'm trying here._


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